Ovington's Bank

by Stanley John Weyman

Sir Charles quailed. This was worse and worse! Worse and worse! He dropped the air of carelessness which he had affected to assume, and no more flustered man than he looked out on the world that day over a white lawn stock or wore a dark blue coat with gilt buttons, and drab kerseymeres with Hessians. But, again, true to his instincts, he grasped at a matter of form, hoping desperately that it might save him from the precipice towards which his friend was so vigorously pushing him. “But—my good man,” he argued, “I can’t draw out the money—the whole of the capital of the concern, so far as it is subscribed—on my own responsibility! Of course I can’t!” wiping the perspiration from his brow. “Of course I can’t!” peevishly. “I must have the authority of the Board first. We must call a meeting of the Board. That’s the proper procedure.”

Acherley rose to his feet, openly contemptuous. “Oh, hang your meeting!” he said. “And give a seven days’ notice, eh? If you are going to stand on those P’s and Q’s I’ve said my say. The money’s lost already! However, that’s not my business, and I’ve warned you. I’ve warned you. You’ll not forget that, Woosenham? You’ll exonerate me, at any rate.”

“But I can’t—God bless my soul, Acherley,” the poor man remonstrated, “I can’t act like that in a moment!” And Sir Charles stared aghast at his too violent associate, who had brought into the calm of his life so rude a blast of the outer air. “I can’t override all the formalities! I can’t, indeed, even if it is as serious as you say it is—and I can hardly believe that—with such a man as Ovington at the helm!”

“You’ll soon see how serious it is!” the other retorted. And satisfied that he had laid the train, he shrugged his shoulders, tossed off a third glass of the famous cherry-brandy, and took himself off without much ceremony.

He left a flustered, nervous, unhappy man behind him. “Good G—d!” the baronet muttered, as he rose and paced his library, all the peace and pleasantness of his life shattered. “What’s to be done? And why—why in the world did I ever put my hand to this matter!” One by one and plainly all the difficulties of the position rose before him, the awkwardness and the risk. He must open the thing to Bourdillon—in itself a delicate matter—and obtain his signature. If he got that, he doubted if he had even then power to draw the whole amount in this way, and doubted, too, whether Ovington would surrender it, no meeting of the Board having been held? And if he obtained the money, what was he to do with it? Pay it into Dean’s? But if things were as bad as Acherley said, was even Dean’s safe? For, of a certainty, if he removed the money to Dean’s and it were lost, he would be responsible for every penny—every penny of it! There was no doubt about that.

Yet if he left it at Ovington’s and it were lost, what then? It was not his custom to drink of a morning, but his perturbation was so great that he took a glass of the cherry-brandy. He really needed it.

He could not tell what to do. In every direction he saw some doubt or some difficulty arise to harass him. He was no man of business. In all matters connected with the Company he had leant on Ovington, and deprived of his stay, he wavered, turning like a weathercock in the wind, making no progress.

For two days, though terribly uneasy in his mind, he halted between two opinions. He did nothing. Then tidings began to come to his ears, low murmurs of the storm which was raging afar off; and he wrote to Bourdillon asking him to come out and see him—he thought that he could broach the matter more easily on his own ground. But two days elapsed, during which he received no answer, and in the meantime the warnings that reached him grew louder and more disquieting. His valet let drop a discreet word while shaving him. A neighbor hoped that he had nothing in Ovington’s—things were in a bad way, he heard. His butler asked leave to go to town to cash a note. Gradually he was wrought up to such a pitch of uneasiness that he could not sleep for thinking of the ten thousand pounds, and the things that would be said of him, and the figure that he would cut if, after Acherley’s warning, the money were lost. When Wednesday morning came, he made up his mind to take advice, and he could think of no one on whose wisdom he could depend more surely than on the old Squire’s at Garth; though, to be sure, to apply to him was, considering his attitude towards the Railroad, to eat humble pie.

Still, he made up his mind to that course, and at eleven he took my lady’s landau and postillions, and started on his sixteen-mile drive to Garth. He avoided the town, though it lay only a little out of his way, but he saw enough of the unusual concourse on the road to add to his alarm. Once, nervous and fidgety, he was on the point of giving the order to turn the horses’ heads for Aldersbury—he would go direct to the bank and see Ovington! But before he spoke he changed his mind again, and half-past twelve saw him wheeling off the main road and cantering, with some pomp and much cracking of whips, up the rough ascent that led to Garth.

He was so far in luck that he found the Squire not only at home, but standing before the door, a gaunt, stooping figure, leaning on his stick, with Calamy at his elbow. “Who is it?” the old man asked, as he caught the sound of galloping hoofs and the roll of the wheels. He turned his sightless eyes in the direction of the approaching carriage.